Chapter Text
"What's all this, then?"
They'd taken the last day off. Well, Daniel had taken the day, and neither Bonnie nor Clyde had bothered to summon him from his room that night. Could the crying have turned them off? There was certainly enough pain and rage to share amongst the three of them that all they really needed was communion wine and a barbed leather flail to make it a real party.
Fuck, Daniel did not want to do this.
The two of them were quiet. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, this time. If Daniel had been on his A-game, he'd have said something like, "Trouble in paradise?" Or, "Lover's quarrel?" Or, even, "Seventy-seven years for the honeymoon phase to end. Gotta be a new record!"
Instead, he sat in the silence he had inadvertently birthed and sucked the inside of his lips between his teeth.
There was a tape on the table. Not a cassette, no, they'd dealt with that fiasco two nights ago, and Daniel had not slept a wink since then. He honestly felt nauseous and dazed, exhaustion creeping into his bones. He had gotten the tremors under control, but still. He was not in tip-top shape to be going toe-to-toe with two vultures who'd circled him like a still-breathing coyote dragged onto the shoulder of Oregon Route 216.
"Okay…" Daniel sucked his teeth enough that it made an audible tsk, and he jerked his chin at the seltzer that had been left on the table in a crystal decanter. "You got anything stronger than that, or has the well finally run dry?"
It was Louis who smirked. His eyes flickered to Armand, brows arching, and Daniel did not need to be a mind reader to see the, "Told you so." It was glittering in his eyes.
Armand lifted his head and gave the bullshit smile. The tight, practiced, breezy smile that he had given Daniel a hundred times in the last few weeks.
Funny, that. In the whirlwind of recollection, Daniel could not remember Armand smiling at him like that in San Francisco.
Stupid ass.
"We believe that the consumption of alcohol might be interacting poorly with your medications," Armand said. Curt, matter-of-fact. Like he was reading off a script. "The insomnia—"
"I really don't think that my lack of sleep is due to the pinot grigio, but sure, let's pretend for a second that's it." Daniel leaned forward, squinting at Armand's face. "What the hell do you care?"
Armand blinked. He leaned back, mouth closing, and the muscle in his jaw jumped as he appeared to shrink away from the question.
"Sorry," Daniel said, "should I start the record? Let's start the record. Session 16: the vampire Armand, and—"
"We thought that maybe we would do something different today," Louis said, a hand outstretched. "If you don't mind?"
"I don't like sequels," Daniel said passively, dragging his notepad closer and scribbling: FUCK THESE VAMPIRES. "They bore me. Always rehashing the same shit, never changing, never expanding. Leave the narrative to stagnate while the characters rot. Or is that a reboot?"
It was Armand who turned his face away to hide his amusement. Louis looked at Daniel blankly, like he was speaking in tongues.
"I know you've seen movies, Louis, c'mon."
"I've seen movies," Louis said, "obviously. I just don't get the same thrill out of them that you two—"
"Let's be honest, shall we?" Armand straightened up while Louis sagged. It was like watching them pass a puck back and forth. "You remember it all now, yes? San Francisco, the fiasco, all of it?"
"I remember some things," Daniel said hesitantly, "better than others. I know you were there. I know you bit me."
"I did."
"But here's the thing I don't get," Daniel said, eyes darting between them. Louis seemed very interested in the rug all of a sudden. Interesting. "You say you saved me from Louis. Stopped him from killing me, whatever. I remember it, I know. I get it. But I don't get you."
"I imagine not."
"Him?" Daniel jerked his pen in Louis's direction. The man raised his eyes, met Daniel's, and nodded in acknowledgement. "Him I get. He attacked me because I poked, and prodded, and pried, and he lost it. I got under his skin, I was a brat who wanted to bleed him dry, and I got bled for it. Very poetic. But what about you? What's all this? Pretending to care about my damn medication? Dropping the happy couple charade? What's going on?"
Louis's eyes dragged toward Armand. There was an accusation there. Armand merely sat very still.
"We would like an interlude," he said carefully, after a moment's silence. "It could be on the record, if you'd like, but ultimately that is up to you. Because, Daniel, we intend on interviewing you tonight."
"Oh, God." Daniel barked a laugh. He shook his head in disbelief, jotting down a note about the tension between the two supposed love birds. "So you two are on top tonight? Might as well, it's been a while since I was thoroughly fucked. I guess two nights ago, and before with the Alice thing, that was just foreplay to guys like you."
"You misunderstand," Armand said patiently. Or feigned patience. More likely. He was probably starting to get pissed off, if the little crease between his brow was any indication.
"And what am I misunderstanding?" Daniel looked at Armand, placed a tight smile on his face and jerked his head to the side.
Let him look in the mirror, he thought. Condescending son of a—
"I am not trying to trick you," Armand said, his voice a bit sharper than normal. He blinked. "We are not trying to trick you."
"Oh, leave him out of it." Daniel dangled his pen between his fingers and waved it between the two men. "I know this was all you. You want to tell me your story? It can wait until I'm done with his."
"I have already told you my story," Armand said quietly.
"Right," Daniel said, rolling his eyes. "Sure you did. Between the cigarettes and the blood sucking, I'm sure somewhere in there, you managed to squeeze in five hundred years of bullshit. Was it before or after the love of your life tried to suck me dry and off himself?"
Armand's eyes fluttered closed. His nostrils flared. Louis glanced at him, and he frowned, leaning ever so slightly closer over the couch.
"You sure about this?" he asked. "We really don't have to—"
"We need to." Armand's eyes snapped open, and Daniel jerked back as he snatched his computer up, a shout of dissent dying in his throat as Armand tapped the mousepad and tossed the computer onto the cushion beside him. He leaned forward, dragging the microphone closer, and he leaned forward to speak again. "The human, Daniel Molloy. Session one."
"Fuck you." Daniel scowled, and then he leaned forward, meeting Armand's eyes over the microphone, dark enough that they were almost properly brown. "That's on the record. The vampire, Armand, and the vampire, Louis, are also present. On the record. This is session sixteen."
"This is not my interview," Louis said, dragging a pillow into his lap and hugging it close. "You two have at it. When you're done, you'll be all mine again, Daniel."
Armand's expression was very strange then. He sat there, smile tight, head tilted, and of course they were talking to each other in their minds, stupid ass—
Daniel leaned forward and underlined his prior note. FUCK THESE VAMPIRES.
"Well, if I'm being passed around like the whore I apparently am—"
"Ten million, remember? You said—"
"I'd like to be in control of the narrative, thank you. And also." His eyes swiveled to Armand with a thin smile. "You've both read my books. What the hell am I going to say to this microphone that I haven't already said?"
"Your books were enlightening," Armand said, "that's true. Getting a glimpse into the life you led, into the way your mind worked. Splendid."
"So why am I the subject of this impromptu interview?" Daniel leaned back against his chair and crossed his arms. "Look, the point is to tell a tale. My tale's been told, a few times over, by my own hand. Don't need you two chucklefucks to know where and when I fucked myself."
"Is that what interviewing is to you?" Armand asked, tilting his head.
"You wanna go Foucault on me?"
Armand pressed his lips together thinly. His head turned, and it was clear he was suppressing a laugh. Weird.
"You think you know yourself so well," Louis said, staring down his nose at Daniel as he tipped his head toward the pillow he held, "yet what makes you any different than me? Really?"
"You want the itemized list, or the cliff notes version?"
"This is all you," Louis said, shooting Armand a sharp glance. "I wasn't there. Hell, I don't even know all of it. You keep it all close, like I wasn't the one picking up the pieces."
"I know." Armand blinked rapidly before turning his attention to Daniel. "This only works if you want it to. You could pick up that tape and learn the truth, or we could simply start at session sixteen, and get back into the beginning of the end. It is your choice, Mr. Molloy."
"My choice," Daniel drawled. His eyes flickered to the tape on the table. It was a VHS in a battered, stained paper case. Flimsy, probably bought at a dollar store. There was handwriting on the discolored surface, visible if only because it was written in messy, blocky letters with a silver marker.
His hands were shaky when he reached for the tape.
Some choice.
"Do I want to know?" Daniel muttered, setting the tape gingerly beside his notepad and glancing feverishly between his messy notes and the messy tape label.
In his handwriting, the tape had been called: The Critic, 1977.
"Would you like to watch it?" Armand asked. He sounded way too eager.
"Is it a porno?" Daniel scoffed, taking the time to write down his thoughts on the eerie discovery of his handwriting. "No, wait, let me guess. I was high, and you creeps did your research before I came here, found this in some basement apartment in Bed-Stuy. Great detective work."
Louis laughed. Armand did not.
"There is nothing illicit on this tape," he said. Daniel glanced at him, his eyes narrowing. "If you wish to know more, you will have to watch it."
"Yay, movie night." Daniel tossed his pen aside and settled back against his chair. "You guys got a VCR in this futuristic crypt? Of course you do, what I am saying, wow."
Real Rashid had rolled out a TV that had certainly belonged to his daughter's middle school in the 90s. He felt like he had seen it once, pushed up in the corner of her fourth-grade class between the state capitals board and the paper maché dolphin as large as she was.
"I'm surprised you didn't digitize this," Daniel said, picking up the tape and turning it over curiously. Nothing on the back. Just a label on the side, in his handwriting again, the same title. He handed the tape over to Real Rashid.
"They're all digitized," Armand said with his unhelpful eagerness.
"They all are, huh?" Daniel flashed him a smile that he hoped read as unimpressed. "You got a library on me? Did you stalk me or something?"
Louis snorted into his hand, and Daniel's heart plummeted into his stomach. He was hesitant, in that moment, to look at Armand. And when he did, he was not sure if it was a relief or a shock to see how blank his face was.
"Well?" Daniel demanded.
"Let's start," Armand said, "with 1977. What do you remember of that year?"
"Uhh…" Daniel bit back a scoff. His eyes rolled back into his head. Amateur. "Okay, 1977. Jimmy Carter was president. Spain held its first democratic election since the Civil War. There was a black out in New York City, had some fun there. I audited a couple classes while I was in Oxford doing freelance. My mom died. Robert Lowell published Day by Day."
"And died," Armand reminded him.
"And died," Daniel agreed, unsurprised that Armand was into poetry. "Should have put that above everything else. Definitely before good ol' mom."
Louis had handed over the remote to Armand. It was a bulky thing. Nostalgic as hell.
"Anything else?" Armand asked.
"Lots of gaps there," Daniel said, smiling grimly. "The whole dead mom thing sent me back in my first real recovery journey. The second half of that year was a total blur."
"I see." Armand crossed one leg over the other and nodded curtly. "Well, let us see if we can jog your memory, hm?"
Hesitantly, Daniel turned his attention to the television. The VHS rumbled passively as it was fed into its intermittent home, and the tape began to whir softly, filling the uneasy silence as the staticky television began to flicker. Ribs of color, red bands first, then blue, rippling together before a grainy, shaky scene appeared. The cameraman was clearly inexperienced, or simply inebriated, as he fumbled with the bulky equipment behind the scenes. For a minute, it was just obnoxious sound, the microphone too sensitive for all the clicking and clacking. The scenery was nice, though, if not dark. Benches could be made out. Curving walkways. Neatly trimmed hedges. Trees in the background. A lily pond, glimmering in the dull light. It seemed vaguely familiar.
Then Daniel's eyes widened.
"Do you recognize this place, Mr. Molloy?"
Daniel swallowed his uneasy, helpless questions. They would only feed this new appetite that these two had for Daniel's sanity.
"Oxford."
"So tell me about the movie."
It was dark. They had set up the camera beneath one of the few lamps in the botanic gardens. It barely fit on the bench, two hefty boxes taking up more room than one human person possibly could. Daniel barely fit on the bench.
When he'd started recording, his subject had not been paying attention. He checked the camera lens to be sure that the man was in frame. Then he leaned back against the hard wooden bench and smirked. The subject, who had been admiring the lily pond, quietly rounding it, paused to glance at him.
"This again?" The subject scoffed, kicking gravel into the pond with a small smirk. "You told me that you were done with this."
"I lied. What movie did you watch?"
The subject rounded the pond and came into the light, sauntering with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He had to wear a belt, as they were clearly too big for him.
"It was called Star Wars." The subject offered a soft laugh. "Quite to the point. Very creative. No notes."
"Note, for the record, that the subject is using sarcasm."
"This is not an interview," the subject said, turning away from the camera. "I will only respond to this nonsense if it is for leisure, not work."
"Okay? Hey, turn around! You love being recorded. Tell me what you thought of the movie."
"Tell you?" the subject asked, quirking a brow. "Or tell the machine?"
"You love the machine more than me."
"It is not difficult to. Oh, fine." The subject turned to face the camera. "Here?"
"A little further back."
The subject obliged, offering out his arms.
"Here?"
"Yeah, perfect! So?"
"It did dazzle me," the subject said reluctantly, "a bit— I don't know how they managed any of it. Do you?"
"Nope."
"I enjoyed seeing Tunisia. I believe it was Tunisia. Have you been to Tunisia?"
"Do I look like I've been to Tunisia?"
"Perhaps."
"No, Armand, I've never been to Tunisia. What, you wanna go?"
"No." Armand, the subject, crossed his arms. His collared shirt was ringed red around the biceps. The rest was mustard yellow. He kicked the gravel again. "I found the power struggle to be rather simple and easily concluded. I would have liked to see more conflict between the heroes and their obvious, Nazi-inspired adversary."
"So you think the Empire should have won?"
"I think it would have been more interesting."
Daniel laughed.
"So you support Nazis?"
Armand pivoted in place, shooting Daniel the most scathing look possible before rolling his eyes.
"I am not going to entertain you. I know this game."
"Oh my gosh, he knows my game. Incredible. How many Nazis have you killed?"
That earned a flash of a smile, a chuckle rising from his throat. He turned his full attention to the camera, leaning forward and grinning broadly.
"Four hundred and seventy-two," he said.
"Bullshit."
"It's true."
"You are such a liar."
"You believe what you want. As you always do. Truth is subjective, no?" Armand straightened up, looking satisfied.
"What did you do, during the occupation?"
Armand swiveled to stare beyond the camera at Daniel.
"This is not an interview," he reminded.
"Off the record," Daniel said, "what did you do in Paris, when the Nazis occupied it? Did they target the Theater?"
"The Theater was a troupe of vampires, Daniel, they couldn't have hauled us away if they wanted to."
"But they knew you existed, right? Did they ever come looking for you?"
"Yes," Armand said, frowning. "And they promptly forgot who they were looking for. But to answer your question, I simply did not go out much in those years. Except to kill. Sometimes with a gun."
"No you did not."
"Why do you question these things? You asked me what I did during the occupation of Paris. I joined with the locals, the humans, when I could. It was better than hiding, and made hunting easier, as I could not be in the Theater. Does this answer your question?"
"It does, thank you. So what you're saying is that you lived the real life Star War, congratulations. Did the movie do resistance fighters justice?"
"I suppose they were presented very gallantly in the film, yes."
"So," Daniel said, "you support terrorists?"
Armand's eyes flickered in the dark, a shine of amusement radiating from them despite the very stern and disappointed expression he wore. Then he turned away, stifling a bright, airy laugh into his hand.
Daniel skittered before the camera, gravel spraying beneath his boots, cigarette wobbling in his mouth, and he grinned at the camera.
"You heard it here," Daniel said, pointing at the camera. "Terrorists are the new hot thing. We support terrorism. Overthrow your governments. Light parliament on fire!"
"Easy, Guy Fawkes," Armand called from beyond the pond. "Pack that thing up. I'd like to watch another film."
"Okay, then go watch another film. I'm gonna make a B-roll."
"No, you are coming with me."
"Eat shit." Daniel dragged the case for the camera over, ducking his head out of frame and pausing to consider the lens before taking a drag from his cigarette. "This is good lighting for you."
"Daniel, I want to see the film again."
"What? Star Wars?"
"Yes."
"Fucking hell."
The frame that this particular video had stopped on was, bafflingly, Daniel's own face. There was no denying it, even though he had heard his own voice throughout the video. The younger Daniel, perhaps twenty-four here, wore a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that were not particularly fashionable or flattering, but had served their purpose well. Daniel had lost them in 1980 in a bar fight.
Holding onto that thought was just about the only thing keeping him from falling onto all fours and wailing like a banshee.
"What," Daniel said, "the fuck was that?"
"I think it was an interview," Louis supplied brightly. Faux brightly. He was enjoying Daniel's discomfort, a little. Fair enough. It was apt revenge.
"It was not an interview," Armand said curtly. He'd drawn his fingers over the arm of his side of the couch and was playing with the fibers. He did not look at Daniel.
"Why the fuck were you and I watching Star Wars together?" Daniel shook his head fiercely. "I don't remember that."
"Clearly," Louis said in his feigned helpful voice, "you don't remember a lot of things, Daniel. Let us help you."
"You're being awfully bitchy tonight, Louis. That's a shame. And, for the record, I remember the first time I saw fucking Star Wars, okay?" Daniel scowled. "It was with Alice." He did not miss the way Louis rolled his eyes. "I hadn't gotten to see it in theaters, because I was in Oxford when it came out, and I was busy studying and working. She hated it. She pretended like she liked it, but she wasn't interested at all."
"So are you saying that this tape is a lie?" Louis asked sweetly. "Perhaps we can ask the young man, there. Or his companion. What were their names…?"
"Louis," Armand said. It was a warning.
Louis blinked. He straightened up, and he frowned.
"I apologize," he said. Daniel stared at him blankly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "It's just that I have gotten very used to you being the one asking the questions. It's good to be on the other side of it."
"I'll bet."
"That night did happen," Armand said gently. "Do you not remember it now that you've seen it?"
"I don't know what I just saw," Daniel said, waving vaguely at the television that bore the hazy image of his young face. Stubble along his jaw, mop of black curls a bit too long, cigarette hanging from his mouth. Same old Daniel. It was strange to see his face, like an old friend winking in the corner of a smoky, dimly lit bar. "Again, why would I go see any movie with you? You assaulted me in a seedy apartment in San Francisco four years prior, and yeah, it's hazy to me now, but I'm sure it wasn't then!"
"Firstly," Armand said, shifting uncomfortably, "he assaulted you. Not me."
Louis made a derisive noise and covered his mouth with his hand. He glared at the sofa.
Daniel bit his tongue, and he yanked down his t-shirt collar to reveal the still-white scar on his neck.
"I had your consent for that," Armand said.
"Compulsion is not consent," Daniel snapped.
"I was not compelling you!"
"Oh, sure! Because I wanted you to bite me and drink my blood and almost kill me and then cast me aside like a cheap whore. For sure." Daniel's hand trembled at his knee. He tried to focus, but his vision was swimming.
"Maybe you should show him a different video," Louis suggested with an arched brow that made Daniel frown. "There are a few in the archive that I'm sure young Daniel would find quite enlightening on this subject."
"Maybe." Armand tilted his head at Daniel. He looked oddly tired. "We can stop here, Daniel. It's too much, clearly."
"I don't know what the hell you just showed me, otherwise I'd be glad to comment properly."
"You saw Star Wars with Armand," Louis supplied, again, unhelpfully. "And then took a lovely stroll, it seems like. Tell me, Daniel, was it raining?"
"Oh, fuck you."
Daniel got up, gathered his things in a skittish, trembling haste, and he snatched his laptop from between the two.
"And for the record," he said, glaring between the two men, "I know you guys broke up. Probably before we even started all this. Can't wait to hear how the greatest love story ever told ends, though. Great sesh, boys."
And then he snapped his laptop closed and left.
Another wasted day.
Fuck.